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Dear M, Time machine station wagons combat the future. I miss the spit out corn fields of Iowa. Burnt stalks reveal the hollow faces-- All the farmers gave their half-filled little dolls marching papers. I miss a cliché. The wind: an ogre. Do you still want to own things? I freeze, a peeled husk. #2 Dear J, The sky broke. Sunset became a fatality in my train-track backyard. Maples blazed up, giant persimmons against the battleship sky. This time of year, trees in the Midwest are on fire with color. Clouds: ash and smoke. I've got itchy feet. There are new faces. Not as many Nick Cave fans to bring me my Jam Jar drinks. I like to be served with pretension. Have you reaped vineyards? Hid from helicopters? Where is your center? I am a ventriloquist’s dummy. #8 Dear M, My eyelids screen unsightly images of others’ belongings. Duct tape and sharpies identify the missing. Houseplants, stolen. Every week cardboard crushes the curb. The universe tips scales to an even keel favor. Dusk dematerializes the paper. I never witness trucks load unwanted clothes, knick-knacks bought in past lives. Sprint from the attic Fallen from mantel in all wheeze and rasp. The old photos shoved in heavy black yard bags. I’m not supposed to mourn the past. I’m supposed to say an eternal yes a giveaway prize of knock-off Ikea tulip vases. Anesthetize all the little feet, snug bugs in a rug, the furnace gate slams shut. I follow the Real Simple guidelines but am ashamed at how un-simple it all is. There is a latch lock outside the laundry room door, am I living on the wrong side? Bios: Jennifer MacBain-Stephens went to NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and now lives in the DC area. Recent chapbooks are out or forthcoming from Grey Book Press, Dancing Girl Press and Shirt Pocket Press. Her first full length collection is forthcoming from Lucky Bastard Press. Recent work can be seen or is forthcoming atJet Fuel Review, Pith, Freezeray, So to Speak, Entropy, Right Hand Pointing, Chiron Review, and decomP.Visit: http://jennifermacbainstephens.wordpress.com/. Meg Tisinger graduated from the University of Iowa and takes photographs and writes poetry in Iowa City. She makes a mean kale lasagna, and likes to watch horror movies. She has poems published or forthcoming in Pretty Owl Poetry, Inferior Planets, F.A.L. D. (Fuck Art, Let’s Dance,) and ITWOW (In the Words of Women.)
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